


touch taboo

by Chivience



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Canon Compliant, Getting Together, M/M, Touch-Starved, gratuitous content of cousins being annoying, no i promise those two don't contradict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28144788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chivience/pseuds/Chivience
Summary: The earliest memory Kiyoomi has is being four years old and staring at a ball of fur curled up by his feet. His mother tells him four things:Your animal friend is a part of you. Deeper than your chest and past your heart. Her name is Zaki, and she is yours.She can turn into any animal you want, as many as you can dream up, but there will come a time where she picks one forever.She feels what you feel, and you feel what she feels.You should never touch someone else’s animal. Only the people who love you may hold your soul.Or: Sakusa Kiyoomi gets touch therapy through the conduit of his daemon.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 68
Kudos: 276





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kozakuraa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kozakuraa/gifts).



> AKA my retelling of The Sakuatsu Story™ but with a healthy sprinkling of animals.
> 
> Hello it's me back again once again with another fic about touch aversion. No, I'm not sorry. Both parts of it are already written! I just split it up to make it more palatable because it's... a monster? Yeah.
> 
> You don't have to know about His Dark Materials or how daemons work to enjoy this, because hopefully I've done a good job of explaining it within the prose already. 
> 
> Thank you, Vox, for betaing. Your help and comments are incredible. I'm dedicating this to you because it's what you deserve <3

The earliest memory Kiyoomi has is being four years old and staring at a ball of fur curled up by his feet. His mother tells him four things:

  1. Your animal friend is a part of you. Deeper than your chest and past your heart. Her name is Zaki, and she is yours.
  2. She can turn into any animal you want, as many as you can dream up, but there will come a time where she picks one forever.
  3. She feels what you feel, and you feel what she feels. 
  4. You should never touch someone else’s animal. Only the people who love you may hold your soul.



* * *

Kiyoomi learns that Zaki is a daemon, a manifestation of his very being—hidden desires and ugliest shadows and all things besides. 

Back when he was seven and constantly flexing his wrists, still yet unaware of how easy they could slip from their sockets, she shifted into a snake and bent herself into half with him. When he was eight and settled before his telescope on the field in a park, still maskless and fearless, she shrank into a firefly and glowed alongside the stars. 

Zaki, however, never quite favours any form as much as a cape fox.

She fills in the gaps in his home as best she can. They curl into bed together when his parents are still busy at work, and he buries his face into her soft silver fur to fall asleep. She plops into his lap as they watch the TV while his sisters are off in university. Tilts her chin up when he scratches between her ears. 

On his ninth birthday, Kiyoomi is given a puzzle made of a thousand pieces. It is _immensely_ overwhelming. For a long while, he stares dumbly at the box art. “Where do I… start?”

“Sort out the corners, Kiyo,” Zaki peeps, nudging stray pieces towards him with her snout. 

It is here where he learns that cape foxes raise and wag their tails when they’re excited, because he watches Zaki do exactly that as she grins at the completed puzzle of Earth’s orbit, a bubble of satisfaction bursting across her chest and mirrored in his. (They finish the thing over the weekend. Kiyoomi’s parents despair when he shows up empty-handed again.)

Just months after this, between his third and fourth shoulder dislocations, Kiyoomi’s parents take him to the doctor. 

Zaki is on his lap, whining fretfully, when he’s told about the dangers of ‘unstable hypermobile joints’. Heart splintering under the weight of terrifying knowledge, Kiyoomi cradles her to his chest and lets her licks against his chin soothe his unsteady pulse.

The quiescence of his home fills with whispers of caution and fear. Suffocatingly loud, they murmur about the fragility of his body and all the pathogens that could bring it harm. 

_Look at him,_ they whisper. _Look how broken; no one will want him as he is._

His breaths come harsher nowadays. They ease only if he goes through the routine of sanitising his room, or if he wears a mask, or if Zaki is there to track the heaving of his chest and growl at others to keep away.

Every night in bed, she wraps her tail around Kiyoomi’s arm, smelling half like his fabric softener and half like the air of a cool desert night, as comforting as his routines and distancing measures. Kiyoomi has never loved her more for sticking by him than he does now.

* * *

Zaki trods beside him when they’re properly introduced to Motoya and Seishi. It’s not like Kiyoomi’s never noticed his cousin in school before; sometimes they see each other in the halls, and Motoya always has his daemon bounding beside him, laughter bouncing raucously down the corridors. 

As with most young daemons, Seishi has tried out many forms: a hyena, a capybara, a golden retriever and, on one memorable occasion, a dragon. (That day, all his schoolmates gasped in awe and had their daemons shift into mythical creatures. Even now, Kiyoomi thinks his ears will never recover from their roars.)

Today, Seishi is a kookaburra. Seated snugly on Motoya’s shoulder, she greets them with a chortle. 

“Yo, Kiyoomi,” Motoya starts. He doesn’t sling an arm over Kiyoomi’s shoulders like he does with their classmates—meaning he's probably heard about the fierce rumours surrounding Zaki that they don’t dispel. “You free after school today? Wanna join us for volleyball? Auntie says you have those bendy wrists and volleyball can help strengthen the muscles around them.” He flops his hands around to demonstrate. “So they don’t fall out as much.” 

Kiyoomi squints at Motoya. His parents do want him to take up a hobby, and his doctor agrees that building muscle around his hips and shoulders could reduce dislocations, but _volleyball?_

He’s never considered sports before, not with how easy it is for his bones to shift out of place, or how millions of bacteria and germs can invade his body through a scrape after falls, or how team sports involve so much _touching_ —

“There’s no soil on the court! And in volleyball you touch the ball for less than a second,” Motoya quips. Seishi tilts her head at Kiyoomi, a croon building in her throat.

“We don’t have anything better to do.” Zaki nudges against his leg.

And she’s right, so he gives a brief nod and makes to follow. Gathering Zaki in his arms, he’s met with twin strings of laughter from his cousin and his kookaburra, laced with disbelief and joy. Kiyoomi lets their sound and Zaki’s warmth begin to fill the crevices in his heart.

***

In the gym, Motoya guides them to a section in the bleachers set aside for the players’ daemons so they don’t have to continuously dodge stray balls, but still stay close enough to their humans to not feel the daemon bond strain with distance. 

Zaki trots up the stairs, primly sitting herself apart from the other daemons. In a span of three seconds, she’s met with Seishi‘s incessant chirping. Kiyoomi’s chest echoes with her stirrings of irritation.

But as Motoya teaches him how to place his arms to receive, as his focus gets absorbed by the path of the ball, the strains of annoyance begin to fade away, something new and foreign slowly blossoming in its place. With every successful bump, the same buoyant warmth he gets when he completes a large puzzle blooms behind his sternum; with each ball bounced off-course, a cool tingle trembles down his fingers. 

He spreads his feet wider. It’s not like the pinpricks of fear he gets when someone touches him—no, _this_ he doesn’t mind. This, he _craves_.

Kiyoomi thinks his first volleyball experience went much better than expected. He says this to Motoya.

Motoya beams at him, pleased, and Kiyoomi offers an unpracticed crooked smile in return. Zaki’s all but pressed her body against the parapet by the end of it, paws propped up, eyes wide and ears perked. Her tail’s lifted so high it brushes against her back. 

“Kiyo, let’s work on setting next!” She yips.

Kiyoomi considers the weight of the ball in his hands, the heat along his forearms, the hunger for _completion_. His resolution solidifies. 

After that, Zaki never shifts again.

* * *

Kiyoomi gets _good_. He polishes up his receives with Motoya, weaponises his spins to the _thud thud thud_ of wall drills. He turns his fear into a drive so he can crush other teams into submission, lord over them on the court—untouchable.

Another good thing about volleyball, he thinks, is their team jackets. Zaki says so too, for another reason. He likes it because he can slide his palms under his sleeves as protection; she likes it when she’s bundled up inside so her paws don’t touch the ground.

Before the first match of his final middle school volleyball tournament, he heads to wash his hands. It’s routine now—has been ever since he first competed.

Near the toilets, he watches two boys kick the door open carelessly, chattering between themselves and wringing their hands dry as they walk _._ Kiyoomi can feel his eyebrows scrunching together, mouth curling into a scowl under his mask. 

“Disgusting,” Zaki bites out, head popped out from the opening of his jacket. He clicks his tongue harshly and pushes into the washroom with a sleeved arm. Thinking about the impurities of others _always_ makes him twitchy; he’ll scrub hard into the grooves of his palms this time.

But he freezes just by the doorway, because there’s a lioness inside, holding herself up tall and proud in the middle of the room. Kiyoomi’s impressed—people always want a powerful daemon, but not many actually achieve it. Somehow, this guy has. 

Standing by the sink beside her is a boy. He dries his hands on a pocket towel and takes care to fold the damp side inwards before tucking it in his pocket.

In between fragmented ploys on how to approach him, Kiyoomi’s gaze is met with two—a blank stare from the boy and an unflinching glare from his lioness. As he turns to watch them leave the room, a spark catches in his chest. Zaki twists her head up to look at him, tail tickling as it wags against his ribs. “Hey, think I can take that lioness in a fight?”

He can’t even bring himself to snort at her rare eagerness at a stranger, not when he’s burning up the same way. “Do you think I can take him in a match?”

(Later, Kiyoomi and Motoya will crown Dosho Middle School champions of the tournament. They’ll face off against Shiratorizawa High in an exhibition match. Later, Kiyoomi and Zaki will learn that the boy’s name is Wakatoshi, and that the strength of his daemon and his serves are _unparalleled_.)

***

After they leave the court from the exhibition match, Kiyoomi follows Motoya on their way back to the bus. Presently, Motoya’s listing down all their options for high school. Zaki walks between them, Seishi settled and singing on her head. 

Kiyoomi remembers his mother telling him about daemon interactions being the most honest manifestation of relationships. He thinks about Motoya introducing him to volleyball, picking out extra umeboshi for him, lending him his game consoles, and he thinks his mother is right.

Realising this, Kiyoomi announces, in the middle of nowhere, “We’ll join the same high school team.” The words tear themselves out of his throat, more than anything. He winces slightly at his lack of tact.

Motoya’s spiel is interrupted, but graciously, he doesn’t drop the ball. “Huh? Yeah, of course. Not like anyone else bothers to keep up with your crazy practice. Have anything in mind, Kiyoomi?”

He does not. Motoya probably knows this. 

As they round the corner, there come the familiar sounds of a lint roller crunching against fabric from a boy in a yellow and green tracksuit. He’s rolling down his sleeves. 

‘ITACHIYAMA’, his jacket says. Kiyoomi manages to snatch bits of a neighbouring conversation. “Iizuna Tsukasa, best setter in the Junior Olympics cup.”

A chameleon rests on Iizuna’s head. And as Kiyoomi pulls out his own matching lint roller, as Zaki yips and her tail shifts, he makes the decision then and there. Itachiyama. He’ll convince Motoya to join him. After all, Zaki’s opinions have never let him astray.

***

Itachiyama’s slated to face off against Hyogo’s Inarizaki High School in the finals of Kiyoomi’s second Interhigh. 

Motoya appears to have a field day with this. “Kiyoomi! Their mascot is a fox, and Zaki is a fox, and they’re our final opponents! It must be fate or something,” he proclaims, fingers moving wildly like he’s connecting dots midair.

Motoya’s definitely been reading too many conspiracy theory threads lately. “What are you on about,” Kiyoomi says flatly, drawing out a titter of laughter from their daemons. 

They meet Inarizaki on the court. Itachiyama’s coaches warned them before the tournament about the enemy setter—precise and perfect tosses, ruthless expectations, some kind of mind meld with a twin on the court. Kiyoomi had briefly considered the beginnings of a rivalry as he studied the clips, fingers twitching for something to spike. But now, watching the blonde brat jostle his teammates and reduce them into ‘scrubs’, there remains only a steely determination to shut him up. 

Miya Atsumu looks back at Itachiyama’s bench as he tosses to his team during warmups, smirks like he believes his win is secured. Kiyoomi feels his lips twitch. Zaki fares no better, spitting and growling at him from the bleachers above. Her teeth are bared and her eyes are narrowed, and Kiyoomi feels her bloodlust sing in the base of his throat.

Her tail hangs low enough to sweep along the bench.

Kiyoomi sinks himself into the rhythm of the game, lets Motoya’s lifts and Iizuna’s sets and his unforgiving spins rip the win from Inarizaki. He’s met with blazing gold eyes from a sore, battered loser across the net, but he averts his own and wills their brand to slip off his skin. Kiyoomi and Zaki are sixteen when they cinch the victory at Interhigh, still unsatisfied, still untouchable.

* * *

Predictably, as the best spiker and best libero of their age group, both Kiyoomi and Motoya receive invitations to the All-Japan National Youth training camp.

They arrive at the Ajinomoto National Training Center together. Kiyoomi bids Motoya to head over to their coaches first, because even now he sticks with his habit of washing his hands before he steps onto the court. Carefully, he pockets his handkerchief and leaves to stalk towards the volleyball gym, Zaki tucked into his jacket.

Halfway down the corridor leading to the court, a disembodied voice rings out from behind him, much too loud and demanding, “—KUSA. HEY! Are ya ignorin’ me? Too good to speak to someone ya won against? SA-KU-SA.” 

He’s not going to deal with this. He picks up the pace. The footfalls of his pursuer speed up, thumping louder and closer. “I was talkin’ to you—”

A hand closes around Kiyoomi’s shoulder. 

Immediately, dread floods his airways. The familiar grip of fear curls cold around his throat. It tightens, suffocates, crushes until his blood roars in his ears and he can’t breathe—

Through the deafening howls of his demons, Kiyoomi finds himself for long enough to wrench his shoulder away. He spins around, sharpens his glare into a blade, wills his vocal cords to _work_. “Don’t. _Fucking._ Touch me.”

In a microsecond, Kiyoomi watches Miya Atsumu’s face shift from shock to confusion to disbelief. It settles on a constipated fury. He bares his teeth in unison with the weasel looped around his neck, sneering, “What the hell’s yer problem?”

Zaki lets out a warning bark, ears pushed back. From inside his jacket, her legs tense. The growl that starts in her chest revs up the indignant simmer in Kiyoomi’s belly into a wave of boiling rage. It thrums hot against his ribcage, crashes through his lips, “What’s _yours_?” 

That’s all he gets before Zaki leaps from his chest and Miya’s daemon uncoils from his shoulders, clashing together in midair. Staggering back from the force of her lunge, Kiyoomi can only stare as their daemons drop to the floor, biting and snarling. 

Miya’s weasel is longer than Kiyoomi’s forearm, twisting itself around Zaki’s back easily. Its claws latch into her shoulders and the pain lances through Kiyoomi’s own. In an attempt to dislodge the mangy furret Zaki rolls on the ground, sinks her teeth into the meat of its body—not deep enough to scar, but enough for the metallic tang of blood to stain Kiyoomi’s tongue. 

It’s feral, it’s _freeing_. And Kiyoomi knows he should be flinching from the sensations of the assault, muted or not, but it’s drowned out by the adrenaline tearing through his veins. It pumps hot and terrible. It reminds him of volleyball. 

Their daemons separate almost as quickly as they crashed together, panting raggedly from the thrill of a brawl. After eyeing up each other for a moment more, they sheath their claws and hide their fangs. Reluctantly, the weasel gives Zaki a sniff of acknowledgement before scrambling up the column of Miya’s body and curling around his neck again.

Kiyoomi supposes that’s the end of that. He doesn’t make it a habit to get into daemon fights, not when Zaki can get badly injured. Still, he can acknowledge that brawls are fought for their catharsis and their fair measure of strength. This one technically ended in a tie. Equals. The ring of fear from Miya’s touch has already subsided into a low thrum of soreness and satisfaction, so Kiyoomi accepts this outcome.

In the span of the fight, the unholy fire in Miya’s eyes burns back down into ash. Carefully, he collects his breath. He moves past Kiyoomi—this time not close enough for their arms to brush—before pausing and tossing him a glance over his shoulder. “See ya on the court. Better spike as good as ya fight.”

Kiyoomi scowls. “You don’t look as cool as you think,” he snipes.

Miya tenses and Kiyoomi’s sure he's going to turn back, but one loud squeak from his weasel has him grumbling through the gym doors. Once they’re gone, Kiyoomi crouches down to Zaki’s height, hands fluttering by her side in concern. For all that she’s talked about challenging Wakatoshi’s lioness, they’ve never actually gone beyond play fighting. She’s never actually gotten _mauled_.

“I’m okay, Kiyo,” she croons, bumping her head against his palms. “Daemons heal quickly.” She starts towards the gym, and through the ache in his shoulders Kiyoomi can at least console himself with her light gait and swaying tail.

***

Kiyoomi is asked to gather with the others in front of the coaches the moment he steps in. Like clockwork, Zaki hops up the steps to observe from the bleachers. Motoya takes one look at Kiyoomi as he steps in line and goes, “What took you so long?”

“A chance encounter with a rabid mink.” Zaki’s amusement flitters across his ribs.

“Chiya’s a stoat!” Miya cries from somewhere to his right. “And she sure as hell ain’t the rabid one.”

“Hmm.”

As the coaches begin to give their instructions, Kiyoomi drowns the searing, straggling desire to punch Miya in the face and reforges it into a focus for the upcoming matches. If luck would have it, he and Miya would be placed on opposite sides of the net, so Kiyoomi can aim a serve into his stupid simper. 

Luck has it. They’re on opposing teams. Unfortunately for Kiyoomi, however, the rest of his wish doesn’t quite play out. What _does_ happen is his shoulder twinging so badly every time he swings his arm that he can’t put his usual spin and power on his hits; but at least whenever Miya bends to do his ridiculous limbo sets, Kiyoomi can catch the tail end of a wince. So Zaki’s bite to the side hurt too. Kiyoomi is endlessly proud of her. 

By the next day, her shoulder recovers completely, and his spikes turn as deadly as ever. Kiyoomi still holds back, though—can’t show off all his tricks too soon. 

***

Even without an audience, every kill scored in their practice is met with a cacophonous rally of support, courtesy of their daemons. This isn’t so different from regular matches.

Zaki prefers to remain quiet, sitting at the edge of the row with Seishi close by. Her excitement is only apparent from the shifts in her tail. This is also no different. 

(What’s out of the ordinary is sometimes Kiyoomi can spot a brown blur, slightly longer than his forearm, darting across the railings like a streamer. Sometimes during water breaks, he sees it stop in front of his fox, sizing her up. Each time, she lets it stay.)

***

It isn’t long before Kiyoomi finds out why Miya Atsumu’s daemon is a stoat.

During one of the matches where he’s on the same team as Miya, someone bumps a low receive. Instead of sending it up with an underarm, Miya stretches his legs and gets below it, back bending as he pushes the ball backwards. The toss is _perfect._ It floats the ball over to the other side of the court without a hitch. 

Staring at the curve of Miya’s form, Kiyoomi’s taken back to the brawl from the day before. Miya’s setting is startlingly similar to how his daemon wrapped around Zaki, twisty-turny and bitingly demanding, as elegant as it is savage. 

Mercifully, muscle memory already has him making the run-up and jumping before he realises the ball is for him. He smashes it down with a flick of his wrist, and it goes careening into the arms of the libero, swerving out of the court as its spin proves too ruthless.

“Nice kill,” Miya calls. He rests his hands on his hips, smiles as if the point was his. Kiyoomi still has the strangest urge to punch him, but he resists solely on the bases of his fastidious no-touch-policy and the fact that Miya Atsumu’s setting is a work of art.

***

Meals are held in a communal dining space, something Kiyoomi loathes, because it’s packed with bodies of people and ringing with the hoots of daemons. It’s made worse with Miya’s daemon leaping all over the place, threading between plates and hands and pouncing from chair to chair, slipping away before anyone can pin her down.

Are they even aware of the touch taboo? Do they know what a _taboo_ means?

“Stars, she’s shameless,” Kiyoomi grits out. A non-committal hum sounds from Zaki, but as she peers over the back of her seat, it seems like she can’t take her eyes off the damned menace either. 

Ever the self-proclaimed peacekeeper, Motoya pauses from his lunch and cheerfully pipes up, “You could just ignore her, you know? Not like Atsumu will let her bother you. Seems to me he knows to keep his distance.” 

_What_ distance? Miya snipes serves at him from across the net like he has some kind of vendetta, sets like he’s granting Kiyoomi a royal favour, gives unwarranted commentary about his wrists like it’s his god-given right. But, for all his insufferable smarm, he never tries to touch Kiyoomi after that first day, not even when Kiyoomi shoots a no-touch kill that ricochets beautifully off the floor and scores them the match point. 

The noise in the room grates on Kiyoomi’s nerves; he feels a headache coming on.

Collectively, everyone makes it six minutes before somebody snaps, “Atsumu, can you _please_ stop your daemon. We’re trying not to touch her but she’s not helping.”

“Let Chiya be, she ain’t hurtin’ anyone.” And there’s the man of the hour, drawling from somewhere in the lounge. Kiyoomi just knows Miya’s soaking up the attention, so he resolves not to give him a second more.

“Chiya’s now terrorising Kageyama’s wolf,” Zaki comments.

“She’s gonna get herself killed!” Seishi trills.

Halfway through lunch, to Kiyoomi’s unending consternation, Miya decides to strike up a conversation with them (Motoya). 

Gracefully, as she’s done many times before, Chiya pounces from Miya’s shoulder and lands on the backrest of Zaki’s seat, peering at her curiously before bumping their noses together. The phantom touch grazes across Kiyoomi’s own, light and wet, and he has to tighten his grip on his chopsticks to resist the physical urge to scratch at it. He misses it, but if the alarmed squeak and soft thunk mean anything, Zaki’s pushed Chiya off her chair and onto the floor.

“Ow,” Miya says, rubbing his wrists. “Rude, Sakkun. You and yer daemon are so prickly, like sea urchins.” He lights up like when he gets in a good spike. “Ooh, _ha-ha_ get it? Kiyo-omi-uni.” 

What— The sheer _audacity_ —

Zaki huffs amusedly. Across from Kiyoomi, Motoya has his lips pursed in a tight line, not laughing only on the account that he knows Kiyoomi is not beyond sending Zaki to bite at his ankles and chew up his knee guards.

Kiyoomi isn’t letting this guy have the last word, so he says, “Miya-Chiya.”

Miya scrunches his nose up when he squints, Chiya giving an inquisitive chirrup from her climb up his thigh, “Where’s the joke?”

He goes back to his meal. “You’re both shameless attention-seekers.” 

Contrary to his expectations, Miya doesn’t erupt into sputtering dissent, but shrugs in acceptance like it’s a fact (it is.) Motoya bursts out into gasping laughter, reverberating with Seishi’s resounding mirth.

***

Their training camp concludes with the blow of a whistle. 

Kiyoomi stretches out his tense muscles, breathes through the burn in his hamstrings, and runs through all that he’s gained from the past three days. He has one leg tucked in and another outstretched when he hears Zaki’s claws clicking on the vinyl floor beside him. She plops down by his side, preens her tail, and pleasantly says, “This was fulfilling.”

“Mmmm,” he says on an exhale as he pushes forward, chest easily coming to rest on his thigh. Kiyoomi accepted the invitation to the training camp to scout out strong opponents and to get a feel of what it’d be like to play with high-caliber team members; a gauge for whether to stick with volleyball for the rest of his life.

He’s satisfied with the outcomes. Hoshiumi and Kageyama are the two to keep an eye on for nationals in the next few months, high soarers of higher leagues. And Miya, of course, not that people can keep their eyes _away_.

There’s a sudden tickling sensation against the front of his legs, sleek fur against skin.

Kiyoomi almost brains himself with his knee with how hard he flinches. Breath coming in a gasp, he jerks his torso up—just in time to see Zaki leap ten inches in the air, limbs flailing, and a very smug, very guilty stoat staring up from the ground where she brushed her body up against Zaki’s limbs. The moment Zaki lands, she gives a sharp bark. Then she pushes off and begins to chase Chiya around the court.

“She’s flighty fer a predator,” Miya observes, crouching down to meet Kiyoomi’s eyes.

“It’s called a sense of self-preservation,” Kiyoomi breathes, rattled, “something the both of you could use.”

“If ya had any self-preservation, ya wouldn’t be here.” And Kiyoomi knows that logically Miya’s referring to the training camp being hell on their bodies, but at that moment he simply wants to agree and leave. Because _no_ , people who care about their blood pressures would _not_ be sitting through a conversation with Miya. 

Too little too late though. Miya barrels on, “Anyway, just wanted to remind ya, Inarizaki’s gonna take yer team down in nationals, disgustin’ wrists and all.”

Kiyoomi cocks an eyebrow. Miya’s wearing a closed-eyed, closed-lip smile. He’s not making a dramatic exit as he’s wont to do, and Kiyoomi thinks there’s a tightness in the corners of his eyes. Still, it’s completely beyond what Kiyoomi’s impulse control can crush down when he prompts, “And?”

Miya hesitates, as if he didn’t even consider that there _could_ be more. Six seconds of Miya at a loss for words—that’s a win. In a bid to make Miya squirm more, he taunts, “So the shame’s finally caught up to you.”

Flush burning across the tips of his ears, Miya sputters, “And! I wanna set to ya more, jerk. So— let’s play together in the V-League.” He sticks out a fist to Kiyoomi, a promise.

“I’m not going pro out of high school. There’s still more I want to study.”

“Don’t matter. Someone as good as ya can’t stay away from volleyball fer too long,” Miya counters, and it carries all the confidence of a royal decree. Wiggling his fist in the air, he continues, “C’mon, I washed my hands and all. And it’s not even as touchy as a handshake. Fer all the wins we got, huh?”

Kiyoomi considers him, the weight of his gaze, the grace of his plays, genuinely grating and gratingly genuine in equal measure. Cautiously, he curls his hand into a fist, bumps it into Miya’s, and he’s met with the most honest smile all camp.

In the distance, Zaki manages to pin Chiya down before she can slip away, the warmth from their contact suffusing Kiyoomi’s chest. This time, he manages to kill the full-bodied flinch down to a twitch.

* * *

Two years later, Kiyoomi accepts a sports scholarship to Todai’s department of Astronomy. Not to say that his academic results were shabby—he’s been planning for this his entire life, ever since his sisters sat him under the stars and pointed out Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, iridescent before the impressionable eyes of a young boy and his fox.

By January of the final year of his course, he’s amassed two collegiate volleyball wins, one MVP title, and countless amounts of offers from professional V-League teams. No degree yet, though. And seeing how he’s half a night deep into the modelling of a blue supergiant hypernova explosion and getting absolutely nowhere, he’s really doubting the certainty of that last one.

“Kiyo, please, take a break. Or just stop for tonight,” Zaki groans. She’s curled herself into a ball on his bed, tail miserably flopped over her eyes, and the clock beside her tells him that the time is either 2:50am or 5:28am. The numbers swim too much for him to be sure. 

She perks up at his response, dragging a copy of a magazine from his bedside table. “Look what came in after dinner.”

At this point, Kiyoomi will gladly take her blatant attempts at distraction. He’s stubborn, but he knows when he’s beat by equations, so he rolls the cricks out from his neck and gets up to resettle beside her. Zaki drops the magazine on his lap. 

It’s the January issue of _Volleyball Monthly_ , and emblazoned on the front is one Miya Atsumu, first string setter of the MSBY Black Jackals. There’s a volleyball caught between the crook of his hip and the curve of his hand, Chiya perched across his shoulders, poised to pounce. Miya’s eyes are hooded, challenging. His tongue curls out, incisors glinting in the flash of the camera. 

‘PLAYMAKER!’ the caption boldly announces, ‘Miya Atsumu is Nation’s Best Server’.

Kiyoomi isn’t surprised at Miya’s front cover feature; in stolen snatches of time between volleyball practice and classes, he flips on V-League matches to support Motoya’s and Wakatoshi’s careers. If they’re against the Black Jackals and Kiyoomi’s eyes are drawn towards the opposition’s setter instead, he can’t be blamed—Miya’s plays are as spectacular and stunning as ever. He flips open the magazine to Miya’s spread, skims through the interview. 

“Seems he’s as cocky as ever too,” Zaki snorts.

There’s been an undercurrent of _something_ running below Kiyoomi’s skin ever since Miya bade him farewell at that training camp, silent enough to be ignored as he goes about his life but never fully quenched. It fizzles like radio static. Hums like a live tripwire. 

Sometimes during practice, Kiyoomi catches himself wishing for higher tosses, tougher serves, slyer smiles. On nights when sleep doesn’t come easy, he thinks about a day from five years before—about a brush that trailed fire across his legs, a fist gently bumped against his own, two promises made; one broken the moment Inarizaki lost to Karasuno, the other still yet to be kept. Sometimes, as he stretches his wrists, he imagines what it’d feel like to have a hand curled around them. 

Hm. He despises 3am thoughts.

As with most times he’s unsettled, Kiyoomi reaches for his phone and opens up the conversation thread with Motoya. Usually, he just consoles himself by stroking the patch of fur between Zaki’s ears, but she’s currently too engrossed in the magazine interview. Motoya’s been bugging him about catching up with each other regularly ever since Kiyoomi entered college anyway, so Kiyoomi can’t feel too bad about texting him at an ungodly hour.

> \---- _yesterday----_  
>  **Sakusa:** How many times can I use ‘therefore’ until it becomes too many  
>  **Komori:** why tf r u writing essays ur an astrophysics major  
>  **Komori:** go wild tho!!  
>  **Sakusa:** Thks
> 
> \---- _today----_  
>  **Sakusa:**

Kiyoomi can’t gather his thoughts for long enough to form a coherent and concise sentence, which translates to typing and retyping his gripes for two minutes. Eventually, Motoya shoots him a message first, and Kiyoomi hits ‘send’ for the hell of it.

> \---- _today----_  
>  **Komori:** i see u typing  
>  **Sakusa:** What does it mean if you can’t forget about a fist bump from five years ago **  
> Komori:** go to sleWHAT **  
> Komori:** WHAT  
>  **Komori:** WHAT  
>  **Komori:** WHO IS THIS MYSTERY PERSON???  
>  **Komori:** i hope u know seishi and i are very invested rn. what brought this on

He should’ve expected this, really. Both Motoya’s sixth sense of when his phone will go off, and his tendency of spam texting. In the midst of lovingly crafting a ‘fuck off’, the message thread refreshes with a new bubble.

> **Komori:** ohhh is it atsumu?? his interview came out recently didnt it  
>  **Sakusa:** Wtf  
>  **Komori:** SO IT IS  
>  **Komori:** whats the prob tho u miss him? (hahhahha jk dont block me again)  
>  **Komori:** just text him if u want to man. u guys exchanged numbers after u19 right  
>  **Sakusa:** No, why would I do that? I don’t even like him  
>  **Komori:** .  
>  **Komori:** sure.  
>  **Sakusa:** I guess I was. Considering joining a team in the V-League  
>  **Komori:** ohoho? volleyball over astronomy hm? what does zaki think?  
>  **Sakusa:** She’s busy reading the MSBY spread from the magazine  
>  **Komori:** and ur still ‘considering’?? DUDE is that not enough of an answer. ur soul is LITERALLY crying out for u to join them!!  
>  **Komori:** i’ll miss playing w u tho :(  
>  **Sakusa:** Hmmmm  
>  **Komori:** what r u waiting for kiyoomi go to hiiimm~~
> 
> \---- _ **Komori** is now blocked----_

Kiyoomi rubs at the bridge of his nose. So much for that. Wearily, the static still crawling beneath his skin, Kiyoomi chances a glance at Zaki. She’s sprawled on her belly, eyes flicking across the words printed on the page, tail dancing lazily in the air.

“What are you thinking about, Zaki?”

Now she glances up, vulpine eyes boring into his own. Her reply comes with no hesitation. “That I’ve never seen you as happy as you are on the court. And that we have a promise to keep, or at least try to. Just let him set to you one more time. What do we have to lose?”

Kiyoomi drums his fingers on the mattress. He takes a centering breath, gets up, and rifles through the call cards given to him by volleyball scouts through the years. 

She’s never let him astray, he reminds himself, even as he picks out the MSBY call card, sets a reminder to call the scout later that day, and begins to look up the schedule of a train to Osaka.

* * *

Tryouts for MSBY are set in February, after Kiyoomi’s finals (which he managed to pass between copious amounts of coffee and the grace of the stars). It’s a long way from Tokyo to Osaka, three hours by bullet train, and as Kiyoomi steps off into the biting winter air of the sprawling station, he can only hope it’s worth it. 

Behind his mask, his breaths puff warm against his cheeks. Kiyoomi bundles Zaki up into his coat without a word, because she’s a creature of the desert who has never done well with the cold. He’s not a fan of her shivers seeping into his bones.

They aren’t alone after they enter the training facility. Waiting for them inside by the entrance is Miya Atsumu, first string setter of the MSBY Black Jackals and Nation’s Best Server—except now, he’s solid and real and no longer pixels on a magazine or a TV screen. He looks warmer in person. Miya heralds his presence, shamelessly, with a trilling, “Omi-kun!” 

So the nickname stayed after five years. Wonderful.

Miya’s appraising gaze glides up his body when he approaches. “I knew ya’d show up, Omi-Omi.”

Chiya snickers from where she’s wound around his neck. She pipes up, sticky-sweet and candy-coy, “He bugged Coach Foster until he got the date of yer tryout.” Letting out a betrayed sound impressively similar to a whistling kettle, Miya whips around and starts marching towards the gym.

Briefly, Kiyoomi is caught off guard at Chiya’s direct address at him, but slipping into teasing is familiar and easy, light-hearted amusement tinging his words as he follows, “Why’d they put you on door duty, Miya? Usually the goal isn’t to scare away potential recruits with a demon.”

“Say what ya want, Omi-kun. Yer just jealous of my devilish good looks—”

“Mmhm.”

“—And if they can’t handle me off the court, they sure as hell can’t handle me on court.”

“That’s definitely a tall order for anyone.” 

Miya clicks his tongue, “’Sides, I didn’t think the big shot _Todai_ grad would remember my name.”

“Why would I forget?” Kiyoomi replies wondrously. Miya stops walking. Kiyoomi turns to check on him, and Miya’s face is priceless—eyebrows raised to his hairline and jaw hung open, pupils flicking in slight disbelief. Kiyoomi languishes at the sight. Feeling his smile turn wry, he tosses in the killing jab, “Your mustard hair was seared into my mind.”

Kiyoomi can see the exact moment the sentence pings in his brain, because his dazed face crunches up unattractively and he jerks forward again. “Oi, I’ll have ya know the fans dig this,” Miya says, pushing into the gym. He holds the doors open for them. “I’m like the fuckin’ sun of this team. My hair literally brightens up the court. S’like _gold_ —” 

As Kiyoomi lets Miya’s incomprehensible ranting wash over him, he has to admit Miya’s managed to fix it up. Instead of flopping over his eyes like limp spaghetti, it’s now fluffed up, coiffed and champagne blonde.

Kiyoomi’s introduced to the rest of the team by the coach soon after he places down his duffel bag and Zaki races up to the bleachers with Chiya. He’s already done his research and pored over their playstyles whenever he had free time between studying, with Zaki providing commentary on how their daemons tied in with their attitudes on the court. Coach Foster has him play a scrimmage with the team, more so to gauge his camaraderie with them than to gauge his skill.

The Black Jackals have powerhouses in Barnes and Bokuto, shots clean and strong and terrible to receive, tight blocks from Meian and Tomas that shut out any half-assed spikes, and careful, dependable receives from Inunaki which pick up any strays. 

They have Miya, who syncs up with him as if the last time they played together wasn’t five years ago. His tosses are as easy to hit as Kiyoomi remembers—maybe even more so, he thinks, as he watches Miya bend himself backwards for his spikers. His sets are high and beautiful, ripe for the picking. Kiyoomi takes them all.

The Black Jackals are unlike any team he’s played with before, and he’s _thrilled_. 

After the match, while the team shoots him smiles and praises and leaves for the locker rooms, Kiyoomi remains behind to speak to Coach Foster, slouching against a wall and sipping on his water with Zaki standing quietly by his feet. He’s offered a place as wing spiker on the spot, and he accepts. Pleased, Coach Foster promises to rehash the details with him again when they have more time, and leaves. 

So it’s done. Alone with Zaki, Kiyoomi simply breathes beneath the hum of the fans, parsing the weight of his decision and finding that it was one he didn’t have to think too hard about. The answer had come to him naturally, unhesitatingly; had probably fallen into place the moment he’d called the scout to arrange for tryouts. He takes another swig from his bottle. Exhales.

Their little peace shatters when Chiya bounds over with a skittering of claws. She nuzzles her head under Zaki’s chin, even as Zaki starts to growl lowly in her throat. A pair of shoes fall in front of Kiyoomi, and he allows the pressure under his jaw from the daemons’ contact to guide his eyes up, sliding past long legs and a toned torso to Miya’s smug quirk of lips.

From this position, Miya’s taller than him. The shadows from the overhead lights dance in his eyes like careless fox flame, flaring bright with mischief. "Coach said ya signed on. See, I toldja ya’d come back to volleyball. Couldn’t even stay away in college, huh.” He pauses. Almost imperceptibly, his voice softens, from flint to bone china, "So, how’d ya like my tosses in the match? Were they all ya’d dreamed of?"

“And more,” Kiyoomi deadpans. It quivers with a note of honesty he didn’t fully intend.

“Damn right. Guess I’ll be seein’ ya in training.” Miya hums as an afterthought, “One more monster hitter to work with, I’m gonna be sooo spoiled.”

“You already are, brat.”

That earns him a sharp grin. “And they didn’t believe me when I said Omi-kun could joke.” Slowly, Miya takes a step closer, raising his arm to telegraph a touch. But Kiyoomi’s shoulder instinctively twitches, and Miya shifts away. His grin dims into a smile. It’s genuine nonetheless. “Catch ya in real practice, Omi-Omi. Save yerself fer my tosses.”

“Bye, Zaki!” Chiya squeaks before bounding out. Kiyoomi isn’t sure why the air seems thinner, then. Or why his hands feel so bereft. 

“My neck’s tingly,” Zaki mutters, and he hums as he stretches his own out in sympathy. Maybe he pulled something during the match; he’ll have to check on the train back.

***

Settled beside Zaki in the train cabin, Kiyoomi methodically rolls out his joints to feel out any pain as Zaki chatters about the daemons on the team—Barnes’ silverback gorilla took up two rows of seats, Bokuto’s cockatiel paraded along the railings like she owned it, Meian’s vulture shrieked like a velociraptor whenever the whistle blowed, Tomas’ panther groomed itself the entire match, and Inunaki’s husky kept whining in an attempt to keep all of them out of trouble. 

Chiya was nice too, she supposes. A little touchy, but clever enough to give good commentary of the match. She also played mediator and introduced Zaki to the rest of the team, did Kiyoomi know?

(What Kiyoomi knows is that thankfully, he didn’t pull anything. And hearing Zaki so talkative about strangers? He knows he won’t regret moving halfway across the country to play with this team. Probably.) 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look who didn’t forget to update! Thank you all for your sweet comments on the previous chapter, I didn’t realise that there were so many people starving for daemon content. Personally I liked writing this chapter a lot more than the previous one, and I hope all of you enjoy it too!
> 
> **There is a scene that features Sakusa crossdressing, as he does in the light novel. If you’re uncomfortable with it, please skip until here.**
>
>> Miya buries his head in his hands and lets out a long-suffering groan. Kiyoomi can relate.
> 
> And here’s [a short summary of what was missed + a scene in between that has no mention of crossdressing](https://imgur.com/a/b9IlRqq).
> 
> All right, here we go.

Kiyoomi definitely regrets joining the Jackals. He should’ve signed on with the Raijins or the Adlers or _something_ , since what the Jackals’ PR team is forcing him through is nothing short of punishing. Presently, he’s in a shower stall in his boxers. Zaki’s unamused stare burns into him. “They’re just clothes. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.” 

Because here’s the crux of his predicament: for the first MSBY fanmeet he’s a part of, PR requested the team perform a dance to a peppy 80s song—which is fine, on the condition that Kiyoomi practises enough to not make a fool of himself on stage; dance is just another form of control over his body off the court. He doesn’t have any issues with that. 

What they failed to inform him about, however, is the ensemble he’s meant to go on stage in. They’ve given him a red spaghetti-strapped dress (it stops mid-thigh because of his height), a matching blazer to throw over it, and a chunky black belt to cinch it at his waist. They’ve also kindly provided him a permed orange wig—for completeness’ sake, they said. It’s all very 80s.

He knows fabric has no gender, so that isn’t the problem. There’s just something about going up on stage in front of hundreds of people in a style of clothes he’s never tried before that ratchets up the whispers in his mind. Historically, change has always set him off the wrong way. 

Kiyoomi hisses at the outfit hung before him, “I didn’t sign up for this.”

“Actually, you did,” Meian calls across the door. “Section 7, clause 10 of the MSBY contract states that you’ll have to participate in fanmeets if the PR team says so. And the PR team says so. Performance is in 20 minutes, Sakusa-kun, and we still have to do your make-up, so let’s pick it up!” Kiyoomi doesn’t dare ignore the thread of steel veiled beneath his velvet voice. He slips on the dress.

Before he manages to shrug on the blazer though, he notices a liquid brown blur sprinting across the tops of the cubicles. Chiya stops directly in front of him and stares unflinchingly. She blinks once, twice. Following which, she sweetly chirps out, “Nice,” and rockets off.

 _What was that_ , he mouths to Zaki. She gives him her best approximation of a shrug.

***

To Kiyoomi’s utter dismay, as he’s ushered up on stage with the rest of the Jackals, he spots Motoya right up front. Motoya has his phone ready for recording, and he gives Kiyoomi a placid smile and a wave of his fingers when their eyes meet. Why people keep singing saintly praises of his cousin when he’s clearly the Devil, Kiyoomi will never understand.

Still, he puts on the best performance he can, because he’d be damned if he fell short of perfection. 

On the other hand, his team moves like an absolute disaster, out of place and out of time. But watching them stumble around gracelessly to the shrieks of the crowd, he thinks he can get used to it. Maybe if he stands right in the middle of their chaos, in the eye of a very volleyball-focused hurricane, he’ll be able to escape from their carnage.

He catches Zaki midway through the first chorus watching from a stool beside Motoya. Like a metronome, her tail ticks along to the beat of the music; her yips at the end of their dance are loud enough to cut through the crowd. Afterwards when they catch each other backstage before the fan signing session, Kiyoomi can’t help but brush a hand through her fur and ask, “What were you so excited about?”

Her satisfaction spills warm and golden across his chest. “I’m happy for you, Kiyo. For all that you’ve found.” 

***

Kiyoomi puts his foot down for the signing session and manages to frown his way through to losing the wig and regaining his mask. PR couldn’t be convinced about the rest of the outfit, though. Apparently, it would ruin the theme of the event if he changed out into his jersey. He thinks PR just wants more fanservice.

As the team fills in their seats at the long table, they benevolently leave the chair at the furthest corner empty for him—symbolic of both their fledgling understanding of his personal bubble and his being the newest in the Jackals (barring Hinata). And yet, Miya, whose popularity surely must have been skyrocketing since high school, chooses to settle right next to him at the very end.

Within seconds of sitting down, Miya begins to fidget. He mutters, low enough that the fans gathering in line can’t catch, “This skirt’s way too tight, feels like it’ll rip the moment I actually relax.” Kiyoomi glances down at his lap. The fabric strains dangerously against his thighs. 

“Just cut a slit, Tsum-Tsum! That’ll fix it,” exclaims Bokuto, who sits at Miya’s other side. 

“Yeah! Go for it, Atsumu-san,” whistles Hinata, who stands at the front of the fan’s queue as an usher.

“NO,” snaps Inunaki, who was unfortunate enough to stumble into the pitfall of MSBY’s contract. 

Miya buries his head in his hands and lets out a long-suffering groan. Kiyoomi can relate.

So, surrounded by this haphazardly-stitched-together excuse of a professional volleyball team, Zaki curled and snoring comfortably around his ankles, the event begins. It’s mostly an easy repetition of sign-nod-thank, but midway through, one fan offers Kiyoomi a gift with wide, blameless eyes. It’s a plushie of a silver-grey cape fox, complete with a feather-brush tail and comically large ears. It dons a tiny black shirt that’s coloured in with white and gold ink to mimic his jersey.

Granted, the fan also gave personalised daemon plushies for every other member on the team; Kiyoomi, who hasn’t even debuted, is only an afterthought. But he can’t find a kind way to reject her—how is he meant to tell her that fomites are vectors of disease, he can’t be sure where her hands have been, the toy is ridden with microbes and it’ll continue to gather dust, it’s very sweet of her but his body is fragile and he just can’t risk—

Miya reaches out to take the toy, voice lilting as he says, “She’s so cute! How kind of ya, dear fan—I’m sure Omi-kun’s daemon would love her. But he’s touchy about presents, so how ‘bout lettin’ me have her instead?” He places the fox on the table beside his stoat plushie and gives the girl a flawless, PR-approved smile. “I’ll sit her right here.” 

Bowing to them one last time, the fan leaves, satisfied. Kiyoomi dips his head as he watches her go. His brain whirrs for him to say _anything_ to Miya, but his throat only clogs up with a shameful gratitude he can’t begin to put into words.

***

By the end of the event, Kiyoomi thinks he could flop on the table and go for a two-hour nap. The combined exhaustion from the dance and hours of human interaction buries itself deep in his tendons, and professional athlete or not, it’s a struggle to get his sluggish muscles to cooperate. He finishes the last autograph with a dragged glide of his marker—

Slippery fur sweeps across the skin above his ankle.

—and promptly drops it. What the fuck was that. It didn’t feel as muted as a touch transmitted from the daemon bond. And Zaki’s fur is definitely coarser. Which means something touched him directly. Which means _he_ touched _something_ directly. And if he’s right and the fur belongs to a stoat, and there’s only one reason a stoat could even be below the table, then he’s touched Chiya, a _daemon_. He’s broken the taboo. The marker rolls down to the floor.

_Fuck._

As further proof of his transgression, from the corner of his eye Kiyoomi can see Miya’s sudden jerk to alertness. Miya recovers quickly, kind of, and he forces a laugh that’s slightly too loud to be natural. “Didn’t know ya were so careless off the court, Omi-kun.” Erratically, he lurches to pick Kiyoomi’s marker up. In his haste, his fingers graze against Zaki’s scapula.

The intensity of the touch is a slashing blade to Kiyoomi’s throat—sharp slices scourging his shoulders and sinking deep down his spine. 

Miya freezes. “Fuck,” he whispers.

Kiyoomi, thoughts still stuttering from _touching someone else’s daemon,_ now staggers at something else altogether. _Double whammy_ , his mind offers faintly. He really might pass out.

He thinks Miya erupts in a litany of apologies and arm waving, he thinks Zaki is the one who drops the marker into his lap again. But truth be told, all the way back to the locker rooms, his prefrontal cortex only snags on a dazed glitch of _‘what the hell just happened’._

Frazzled, he spends a long time changing back into casualwear, long enough for almost everyone in the team to have bid him farewell, long enough to regain a semblance of control over his sanity. He takes a breath. Silences his clamouring doubts.

Steeling himself, he steps in front of Miya. Miraculously, he’s still in the room examining all the gifts he received from the event. Before he can say a word, Miya notices him and blurts, “Omi-kun! I‘m so sorry. I promise I didn’t mean to touch her. It slipped my mind that she was even there.” 

Miya looks very close to getting to his feet and physically bowing—just thinking about it makes Kiyoomi’s stomach churn—so he raises a hand to stop him and responds hesitantly, “Miya. I would also like to apologise. For touching Chiya.”

“But— that ain’t even yer fault. She was the one who ran up against ya,” Miya frets.

“And you didn’t know Zaki was there. I... suppose we’re even.”

Kiyoomi cringes at his uneven delivery. They fall into a tense silence. 

Chiya is the one who breaks it with a squeak, and Kiyoomi only now notices that she’s wound around the fox plushie. “Ah,” Miya says, gesturing weakly, “I know I told that girl I’d keep it, but I could pass it back to ya after I wash it.”

“It’s fine,” Kiyoomi murmurs. Then, stronger, “I don’t think we’d appreciate it as much as Chiya does. And your high school’s mascot is a fox, right? It’s fitting.”

In an uncharacteristic act of sheepishness, Miya touches the back of his neck, but a hint of the usual provocative edge creeps back into his tone, “Ya still remember? Couldn’t keep yer eyes off of us, huh?”

Kiyoomi refuses to tell him that the only reason why he remembers is because of Motoya’s unsubstantiated conspiracy theory. “Dream on, Miya.” 

However, before he backs out of the room, something nudges at the corners of his mind. It prompts him to unhook one loop of his mask, lifts the edges of his mouth slightly. “Also, thanks. For taking the plushie from that girl.” Kiyoomi resettles the mask on his face and turns to leave, Zaki dutifully following on his heels. “I’ll see you in practice tomorrow.”

There’s a hitched pause. “Yeah. Bye, Omi.”

And he can never resist a good jab when it comes to Miya, so he raises his voice and adds, “Hope you didn’t bruise yourself too badly with that fall on stage earlier. Or else I’m gonna win our service ace contest.” 

In the corridor, Kiyoomi allows himself a soft laugh at the strains of Miya’s embarrassed shrieks. That, and the lightness of his gait, he writes off as relief from not completely ruining their setter-spiker relationship.

* * *

Training ramps up in intensity with the approach of the Black Jackals-Adlers match. Kiyoomi doesn’t mind though; he’s just as hopped up on the prospect of going against Wakatoshi again.

But Miya— he takes it to a whole other level. He’s been stuck on mastering a new serve, and the obsession sprouts into late night practice and irate snarling, parasitic roots stripping his solace. There’s an unspoken agreement in the team that no one is to get in his way; all they receive if they try are vehement barbs. Besides, it hasn’t been affecting his performance in practice, so they choose to wait it out.

Kiyoomi knows what’s happening. Hell, he’s learnt about it—the death of a star: after it burns out, it shrinks under the weight of gravity. Its core cools, and its upper layers expand, expelling elements into interstellar space. A planetary nebula, a star’s final hurrah, beautiful in its destruction.

And Miya, with his feral grins and calamitous serves and starbright hair, is about to fizzle out.

One day, alone in the locker rooms after practice, Zaki nips at Kiyoomi’s ankles and tilts her head towards the sound of volleyballs whip-smashing in the court. She says, not unkindly, “Remember when Motoya used to stay behind and practice with us? Deny all you want, Kiyo, but having him there made you less snappy.”

“I was not _snappy._ ”

At this she barks out a high and disbelieving cackle. “Like I said. It was less draining when someone was there to receive your spikes and provide suggestions on your form. We’ve had years of being alone before Motoya showed up. I think we can afford someone else the same.”

“You’re so biased,” he grumbles, but he’s already unhooking his mask, because back when he was beating himself up with drills, having Motoya there to fill the gym with his rambles really _did_ help settle his nerves. (Even if it came at the expense of Seishi snickering whenever he botched receives.)

Victorious, Zaki’s eyes curve into crescents. “What can I say? Chiya’s fun to be around. She isn’t scared of me like the rest of them.” She brushes her tail against his legs as she turns to saunter back on court. “Besides, if _I’m_ biased, I wonder what it says about you.”

“Please stop talking.” He follows her in anyway.

***

As expected, Miya’s still going strong, the other half of the court littered with stray volleyballs. Chiya sits by the wheels of the volleyball cart instead of waiting at the bleachers, silent and still for once. Zaki walks over to join her.

Another serve flies out of bounds. 

Frustrated, Miya lets out a growl and runs a hand through his hair, breaking up the waves even more. He bites out without once casting a glance over, “I’m not stoppin’.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you to.” Kiyoomi takes his place across the net, a challenge ready in his stance. “So?”

Miya’s face twists up into a monstrous mimicry of a smile, more of a grimace than anything else. He makes the four-step run-up and goes through the motions of a float serve before striking it, but it has too little spin—not enough for power, too much for the unpredictability of turbulence to take effect. Kiyoomi digs it easily.

Again and again, Miya’s serves either get bumped back or fail to land in bounds. He looks like he’s fraying at the seams. 

But no, Kiyoomi won’t ask him to rest. Not when he understands how it feels to be so close to success he can _taste_ it; not when he keeps going until he gets what he wants. He won’t ask for this star to stop burning. He’ll just add fuel till he’s sure it won’t die out. See it to the end.

So when the ball cleanly ricochets off his forearms again, he sets the bait. “Miya. Let’s make a bet.” Miya pauses in his motions, panting raggedly, and gestures for him to continue. “Between us, we’ll see if you can get this serve down, or if I can learn to set up to your standards first.”

He gets an inquisitive hum in return. “And what’ll the winner get?”

“Bragging rights.” Kiyoomi says, “Loser sends a text into the group chat that says ‘Winner is the superior volleyball player and I’m a weak little shit’.”

Kiyoomi feels Zaki’s exasperation reverberate across his sternum. She gets up in the beginnings of a protest against his impulsivity, but it’s overshadowed by the brilliance of Miya throwing his head back and letting out bright bursts of laughter. 

“Fuck it. Yer on,” he says, with a proper grin this time. Zaki huffs and sits back down, lightly batting Chiya away with her tail when she tries to pounce on her. Reinvigorated by this, Miya rains down serve after serve, devastating in their intensity. They aren’t consistent enough yet, but Kiyoomi rests assured that they wouldn’t be losing their setter to burnout anytime soon.

He begins mentally preparing his training regimen for setting, and delights himself with a close-up view of stellar incandescence.

***

Unfortunately for Kiyoomi, Miya masters his third serve before Kiyoomi can toss up to his approval, getting it down three times in a row during one of their post-practice practice sessions. The only greater bruise to Kiyoomi’s ego from missing all three is when Miya wiggles his eyebrows and extends an arm to point at Kiyoomi’s duffel bag. 

The one time he chooses not to listen to Zaki’s wisdom, and this is how he pays for it. Pursing his lips, he angles his phone so Miya can see it as he types.

> \---- _unread----  
>  _**Bokuto:** i guess im too tough to cry ;)  
>  **Hinata:** bokuto-san!! just this morning u were crying about kuroo-san’s snake daemon!  
>  **Bokuto:** SHE DOESN’T HAVE ANY ARMS  
>  **Inunaki:** wtf u guys.
> 
> \---- _now----_  
>  **Sakusa:** Miya Atsumu is the superior volleyball player and  
>  **Sakusa:** I am a weak little shit.

He powers his phone off immediately and tucks it into his bag, waiting for the tension headache to hit. Although, witnessing Miya’s stupid victory dance and victory hoots, Kiyoomi thinks he doesn’t regret it—not when they have a new weapon in their arsenal.

“Omi-kun,” Miya laughs, radiant, “they’re askin’ if ya got kidnapped. Should I say my new serve stole ya away?”

“Shut up,” Kiyoomi says, but it’s nowhere near as sharp as it could be. 

(Kiyoomi also can’t bring himself to be upset when not one week later, a tight situation forces him to float a toss over to Bokuto, stable enough for him to kill, and Miya flashes him sparkling eyes and a proud smirk in return.)

* * *

Something shifts between Kiyoomi and Miya after the bet; Kiyoomi just can’t place his finger on what. They still bicker in practice, still hold their service ace competitions, still cost Kiyoomi hours thinking of ways to better his spikes to match magnetic sets. Maybe Chiya’s been more touchy with Zaki recently?

He casts the thought aside. There’s no point in focusing on something insignificant.

***

Once, before practice, Chiya manages to draw the attention of the entire team with some very alarmed squeaks. They’re oddly muffled. Things make sense when they catch her scampering in with half her body stuck, impossibly, in an empty water bottle. 

Dashing around senselessly, it takes one impressive crash into the legs of the locker room bench and a low whine before she has the good grace to stop.

The locker room falls silent.

“Atsumu,” Inunaki begins slowly, “aren’t you ever embarrassed?”

“Inu-san, ya can’t say that with a straight face when yer daemon cozies up against Tomas-san’s right in front of us.”

Zaki is the first to act, sniffing before going over to bodily yank Chiya out of the bottle with her teeth. With a _pop_ , she frees Chiya, and the force from it messily tangles them with each other—Zaki on her back and Chiya sprawled between her limbs. Leisurely, Chiya unwinds herself and licks a long line up Zaki’s chin in thanks. It rasps across the underside of Kiyoomi’s jaw in unison.

For the rest of practice that day he tries his best to ignore the itch and kill off the purring that starts under his skin again.

***

It happens another time during his yoga sessions in the gym. Like always, Zaki attempts to mimic him. She’s really only able to do the downward dog pose, but her enthusiasm and dedication alone help lift his spirits.

They’re joined by Miya today, rare enough of an occasion to be of note, and even then Miya prefers to train with weights. Kiyoomi doesn’t notice he’s there until he’s shaken out of his trance by the noise of a scuffle. 

He supposes he should stop being surprised at Chiya’s presence. Chiya, who has weaselled her way into being bracketed under a very disgruntled fox in a downward dog pose, looking very pleased with herself.

“Are you pleased with yourself?” Zaki echoes. In response, Chiya chirps and wiggles her body, dashing forward and out of her cage and nearly knocking against Zaki’s chin. Kiyoomi feels the touch sweep up his torso, warm as a blush and soft as a breeze. It stretches his breath out in a sigh. 

When he looks up it’s to Miya standing in front of him, eyes lidded and burning, fingers curled into the divots of his hips. Kiyoomi’s gaze first catches on the line of his throat, next to the tip of his tongue that darts out to wet his lips. “Nice form, Omi-Omi,” he croons.

The heat from Kiyoomi’s chest spreads up to the apples of his cheeks, and he tells himself that’s all it is—residual sparks from a touch; he still wants to punch Miya in his moronic leer—as he flips the bird at his unwelcome companion and shifts into another stance.

***

Kiyoomi is in Onigiri Miya the third time Chiya decides to get overly-friendly. After a particularly gruelling training session, Miya invites him to try his brother’s new umeboshi onigiri—

“Omi-kun, ya wanna taste the best umeboshi in yer life? It’s yer favourite right?”

“How did you know—”

—and Zaki, the traitor, already leaves to follow before Kiyoomi can reject the offer in favour of some rest. So here he is, seated on one of the pre-sanitised counter stools after ordering one set of Onigiri Miya’s special umeboshi onigiri. 

Kiyoomi can admit he likes the restaurant—it’s effused in dim lights and washed in sleepy warmth, soothing enough for both him and Zaki to be lulled into a stupor. The low hum of the patrons gets drowned out by the twins’ bickering, punctuated by the soft, rhythmic clicks of Osamu’s knife on the chopping board. It’s nice; Kiyoomi’s had a long day.

Osamu’s daemon has a special perch right on top of his kitchen counter that curves throughout the rest of the dining area like makeshift tree branches. When Atsumu catches Kiyoomi staring, he says, “Riri’s a palm civet. She used to be a stoat like Chiya, but I guess she got tired of bein’ cute.”

Osamu hums, tossing a piece of dried plum up to the rafters. Riri snags it effortlessly. “Yer just jealous that the customers like her more. The tips roll in when they see her hangin’ from the ceiling.”

And it isn’t long before Osamu begins to shape his onigiri, reverent and careful and passing all of Kiyoomi’s sanitation checks. They’re presented to him steaming hot and threaded through with veins of umeboshi. 

Leaning over, Atsumu takes a dramatic inhale. “They smell so good! I should’ve known Omi-Omi would like something as sour as he is.” He nudges at one of the decorative plums with his chopsticks, very much a child playing with someone else’s food.

The tingles that predispose a headache build at Kiyoomi’s temples. He just can’t catch a break today. Grated, he bats away Atsumu’s chopsticks using his own. “Wait for your own, you absolute menace,” he hisses. 

In response, Atsumu tilts his head up and gives Kiyoomi a guiltless troublemaker smile, close enough for Kiyoomi to count his eyelashes and trace their shadows; close enough to appreciate the soft glow of lights that weaves through his hair and spills on the planes of his face. Closer still for him to realise that their shoulders brush, that he can feel the line of heat from Atsumu’s body, as scorching as an incendiary star. Curiously, instinct doesn’t screech at him to pull away before he’s burnt. He blinks.

Atsumu turns away to haggle for his onigiri. The tingly headache moves and— oh. It isn’t a headache after all. At his feet, Chiya grooms Zaki with her tongue, kitten licks that catch at her jaw and snout and the space between her ears.

Between the rough tickles on his face and the searing point of warmth at his shoulder, Kiyoomi’s thoughts are too scattered for him to focus on anything else. At least the static in his nerves is silent for once, quelled by the homeliness of the restaurant and the hearth by his side. 

He’ll come back and savour the onigiri some other time.

***

As if Chiya isn’t bad enough, it doesn’t stop there.

Atsumu invites Kiyoomi over for lunch, buys alcohol wipes and sanitisers and shoe covers, steals food from Kiyoomi’s plate and puts on matches on TV. He pokes Kiyoomi’s calves with his toes when they’re on the couch. Kiyoomi almost drops the remote;

Atsumu, with his twisted sense of humour, gives Zaki a weasel chew toy—“foxes prey on weasels, Omi-kun”—and flails around laughing when Zaki gently takes it back to her bed, arm knocking carelessly against Kiyoomi’s;

Atsumu brings Kiyoomi grocery shopping one day because Kiyoomi admits that university life didn’t afford him any cooking skills. The backs of their hands graze when Atsumu swings the tote bags;

Atsumu almost high-fives him in a match. Kiyoomi almost _lets him._

With each of these, the livewire hums louder and louder, quiet in the instant of contact, bursting back into cognizance in the moments beside. It’s the feeling he gets in the V-league off-season—a restlessness that itches and quivers and pricks. Shrieks at him to shift, to stand. To go _touch._

It’s fine, Kiyoomi tells himself. It doesn’t affect him on the court since he’s already moving. Zaki’s there to be hugged when he’s at home. He doesn’t have to address it.

But then—

In a match against the EJP Raijins, during one of the longest match point rallies in his career, there happens a monumental shift. Neither side budge; not the relentless force of the Jackals, and definitely not the unrelenting wall of the Raijins. 

Bokuto goes for a cross shot; it gets picked up by Motoya. Hinata goes for a quick; it gets slammed down by Suna, barely lifted by Inunaki. Meian goes for a dink; it gets tipped back by Washio. But this time Hinata’s there, and he gets under it, and he sets it up, up, ripe for the picking.

Kiyoomi’s lungs burn. His thighs burn. Everything aches but adrenaline sharpens his focus and it all comes down to this.

The ball floats to him. The roar of the crowd compels him to take. And in midair, just as he draws his arm back, just as he sees their block rise to meet him, he shifts his non-spiking arm up. Ten fingers under the ball, track the position of his spiker’s jump, and push it,just as he’s taught, right into Atsumu’s waiting palm. 

Atsumu rips a line shot straight through the court. It cracks down untouched. 

Match point; they’ve done it.

The crowd erupts into deafening screams, much much louder than what Kiyoomi’s used to hearing, and still he can catch what the commentators say, “—a beautiful kill. And what a seamless transition from the Jackals’ wing spiker. In a stunning role reversal, Sakusa sets it up for Miya instead!” 

Everything gets shut out though, when Atsumu turns to him, beatific and shining and lovelier than any celestial body he’s seen. The force of his grin scrunches his nose and pinches his eyes. Kiyoomi can’t tell if Atsumu’s about to laugh or cry when he shakily warbles, “Omi-kun!”

It’s the only warning he gets before Atsumu surges at him and envelops him in a hug, pinning his arms to his side. _A stunning role reversal._ Heat spreads across Kiyoomi’s body like wildfire. His brain whites out.

Atsumu is the one who tenses and pulls away. He’s painfully sincere when he stutters out an apology.

 _Come back,_ Kiyoomi’s fingers twitch _._ And before his mental functions can properly reboot, he murmurs, “It’s okay.”

Except it’s not okay. Except it’s the only thing he can think about when they shake hands with the Raijins and Motoya raises his eyebrows at him. Except in the duration of the hug, the static crawling in him was momentarily still, and now it crackles even louder. Screeches at a volume he can’t possibly ignore.

He’s so fucked.

* * *

That night, Kiyoomi is kept up tossing and turning by the buzz under his skin. He resigns himself to sleeplessness at around 11pm, instead choosing to cradle Zaki in his lap and pout into her fur. His phone rings less than a minute later.

Zaki thumps her tail against his thigh. “You should get that. It’s Motoya,” she says without looking. He really isn’t in the mindset to deal with his cousin, but they share the same gene that encodes for stubbornness, and Motoya is a modern-day demon who has no qualms about calling until he picks up. So Kiyoomi reaches over and answers it on speaker.

“Good evening, Kiyoomi, Zaki,” Motoya drawls. It’s accompanied by Seishi’s tinny trill in the background. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“If you knew I was asleep, you wouldn’t be calling,” Kiyoomi grumbles.

“Fair. Hey, I know we’ve had a long day, it’s late, et cetera,” Motoya’s voice crescendos, “but would you mind telling me— _what_ the _fuck_ was that hug?” 

Kiyoomi knew this was coming the instant he saw the question in Motoya’s eyes across the net and felt his handshake tighten into a claw, but it still floors him when Motoya says, “Are you and Atsumu dating now? Is that what this is? You scored yourself a boyfriend and you didn’t tell your best friend?”

“What. We aren’t dating—”

“No comeback for the best friend thing I see.”

“—It’s just that. There’s this... feeling. Under my skin.” Kiyoomi grits out. Zaki licks at his fingers and encourages him to continue. “It’s usually quiet enough to ignore. But the hug today, it made it a lot worse. And now I feel like I could resonate out of existence. It’s like— Some astronomical objects have a very hot gas layer that heats up electrons. The high velocity electrons collide with nearby atoms and excite them so much that X-ray photons get emitted. The hug is the electron. I am the nearby atom. My sanity is the emitted X-ray photon; I think I’ve lost it to space.”

There’s a few stunned seconds of silence. But somehow Motoya understands his manic spiel, because he responds, “You really _are_ shaken up. How long has the feeling been there for?”

Kiyoomi hesitates. “Years.”

“ _Years._ And the hug made it worse. Does anything make it better?”

“Any touch makes it worse,” he corrects. “But… touch also makes it better, just for a while.”

Sharp as ever, Motoya prods, “Whose touch? _Atsumu’s_ touch?” 

Kiyoomi has no answer to this; he hasn’t let anyone else as close. The silence is telling, so Motoya continues, “Listen, Kiyoomi. This is normal. I’m fairly sure this is just some good ol’ touch starvation. Actually, I’m surprised it hasn’t hit you sooner, with how iffy you get around people.” His tone gentles. “I’ll send you some links that could help since I don’t think you’ll be getting any sleep tonight.”

“You could stand to be more apologetic,” Kiyoomi says, as if his entire world hasn’t been flipped by this diagnosis. _Touch starvation?_ He’s barely running on fumes at this point.

Seishi decides to chime in, “And _you_ could stand to make a move on Miya Atsu—” 

Zaki slams on the ‘disconnect’ button, reflexes honed from years of practice. She turns to him, nuzzling against his hands and coaxing him into more pets. “You okay?”

He isn’t. The restlessness still creeps its way down his muscles. He has a name for it now, but what’s the use when he doesn’t know what to do about it? Leaning back into his pillows, he huffs, “What does it feel like for you, Zaki?”

She flicks her ears at him, words curling out of her mouth languorously, “Everytime Chiya brushes up against me I get all shivery.” Then she snaps, “Makes me want to rip her throat out.”

So they’re in the same boat. Before he can spiral into overthinking any further, his phone lights up with Motoya’s promised links, along with a sweet message he probably doesn’t deserve.

> **Komori:** hope these help!! don’t beat urself up k. call me anytime ill be awake :)

That’s how he ends up clicking through medical pages and forums throughout the night, with Zaki’s gentle breathing as accompaniment. He reads until he knows enough about the condition and how to manage it for the murky discomfort pressing on his chest to ease up. Until the words blur and his thoughts blur and the lines between _‘Miya Atsumu’_ and _‘Tip #3. Find a Cuddle Buddy’_ meld into one.

He drifts to sleep like this. To the weight of terrifying knowledge and the counterbalance of unconditional loyalty. And, as always, to the familiar, determined will to bring things to completion.

***

Unfortunately, even the strongest of resolves bend. The next day, Kiyoomi suffers gravely from his sleep debt: he almost sleeps in, almost walks straight into the door jam of the locker room in a daze, and—as the most deplorable infraction—actually misses more than a few spikes and receives because of a skewed depth perception.

To say that he’s irritated would be a grievous understatement. 

Throughout training, the team gives him confused looks, but none so piercing as Atsumu’s glare. Kiyoomi waits in front of his locker for him without a word, with only Zaki’s soft whines to soothe his pride. 

Atsumu walks in furious and blazing, Chiya prowling beside him, and when he snarls and viciously runs a hand through his hair, Kiyoomi, sleep-addled, can only think of how Atsumu’s hand would feel in _his_ curls—

“What was that?” Atsumu seethes. “Ya think just ‘cuz ya did that spike-set yesterday that yer some kind of big shot? Think ya can slack off in practice now?”

Oh, so this is how it’s going to go. Kiyoomi’s unused to yelling, but he’s _not_ going to let this bratty piece of shit who’s been running circles in his mind get the better of him in real life too. Zaki barks, tail swishing in agitation. “Don’t presume to know what you don’t,” he says coldly. 

At this Chiya leaps in front of Zaki and holds herself close to the floor. Bares her teeth and starts to vocalise shrilly from the back of her throat.

“Oh? And what don’t I know? ‘Cuz I _know_ ya dragged down the team today. And I _know_ I’ve toldja I don’t make time fer that.” 

Chiya pounces. Cruel and callous. Their daemons twist around each other; withdraw and pursue in a savage dance of push and pull. The sensation of sharp claws on fur scours Kiyoomi’s skin. But even that is subsumed beneath the deluge of his animosity, because whose fault was it that he got no rest? That he was kept awake thinking of barely-there touches and repulsive charm? Hours of fatigued wrath seize control of his voice, whittle his words into stings—

“You don’t make time for anyone,” Kiyoomi hisses, feather-light and needle-sharp from behind the shield of his mask. “You’re so self-absorbed that you don’t see anything beyond volleyball and yourself.”

He regrets it the moment he hears himself. It’s untrue and obviously the wrong thing to say, because Atsumu’s face curdles even more, accent thickening sourly, “Ya know what? _Fuck_ you and yer pushin’ people away. How _dare_ ya say that after all I’ve fuckin’ done fer my spikers off th’ court. How dare ya turn this on _me_ when I’m not th’ one who fucked up today.”

With each word, the fight drains out of Kiyoomi. He knows Atsumu’s right, that he cares about the conditions of his friends more than anyone else; Kiyoomi really doesn’t have a stake in this argument. A tired, gaping void yawns in the centre of his chest, sucks in any rage and vigour and crushes them into dust. He clicks his tongue. “Look. Can we just— do this on another day, Atsumu—”

 _“Atsumu?”_ Chiya wrestles Zaki down onto her back. Her maw hovers over her throat, dripping with saliva. Eyes narrowed into slits, Atsumu steps nearer, “So we’re on a first name basis now, huh?”

First name— wait, when did that happen— 

Atsumu narrows the distance even more, forcing Kiyoomi to press his back against the lockers. His gaze rakes down Kiyoomi’s face, neck, torso, and it scrapes sharp like fangs. Kiyoomi’s breath catches in his lungs, eyes slide to the side— huh. Chiya’s head is ducked, dragging her teeth down Zaki’s body. 

“Fine,” Atsumu whispers. 

That snaps his attention back; Atsumu’s very close now, two inches apart, cornering him like prey. Slowly, defiantly, Atsumu raises his chin, eyes flaring with fox flame and a bruised storm. He tugs down Kiyoomi’s mask with a finger. Breathes the words across his lips, “Ya better fix this, _Kiyoomi.”_

As quickly as he pushed into Kiyoomi’s space, Atsumu pulls away. He tosses him one last glower, and leaves with Chiya.

Whatever strings that were holding him up are cut. Kiyoomi sinks to the floor. Zaki makes no motion to roll off her back, limbs still held in the air.

“What the _fuck,”_ he enunciates emphatically.

Zaki hums in consideration. “Maybe the throat ripping can go the other way.”

* * *

Over the night and through the next morning, Kiyoomi stews in guilt and indecision and starvation-static; he’s lucky that there isn’t practice on the weekends. Both Zaki and Motoya echo his own thoughts about his being in the wrong, with the coy addition from Seishi that arguing wasn’t what she meant by ‘making a move’. 

What really seals the deal, however, is the tapping on his balcony window that comes at 9am. Usually, he’d sooner skip his post-training shower than open the sliding door in the dead of winter, but exceptions are always made—since _Chiya_ is the one who stands outside, rapping her claws against the glass. She must’ve jumped across the railings between apartments. _What._

Bracing himself for the drafts of cold air, Kiyoomi slides open the door just wide enough for her to squeeze through before pushing it shut. The outside air is crisp and still, calm enough for a reckless stoat to perform acrobatics without any significant risk. Amidst everything, that anchors him the most. 

When Chiya leaps up to his coffee table, Kiyoomi sits himself on the floor so they’re mostly at eye level. Damaged relationship or not, Kiyoomi owes this respect to a daemon. Zaki settles quietly at his feet. Chiya stares at him beadily, expectantly. 

She sneezes.

“Bless you,” he says, still slightly miffed at her presence. Briefly, he considers offering her a glass of warm water. Mostly, he wonders how badly he screwed up to warrant a visit from her.

“I’ll make this quick,” Chiya shivers. “It’s fuckin’ freezin’ out there. And s’only a matter of time before ‘Tsumu realises I’m gone. He’s in his room simmerin’ himself into a frenzy ‘cuz he thinks he pushed ya too hard. Just to be clear, we think _you_ should apologise fer what ya said. But since this’ll never come across, he’s sorry he got too in yer face.”

Kiyoomi will _never_ accept an apology by proxy, but he wasn’t much concerned about Atsumu’s encroachment, so he lets it slide. He picks at his nails, chews on his words, “I was planning on apologising. I’m just— not sure how.”

“Oh,” Chiya blinks. “I was expectin’ a lot more resistance.” She waves one arm in the air vacantly. “Food’s a good start. ‘Samu used to cook fer us after fights, and we did the same. Now, if ya know what’s good fer ya, I was never here.”

She makes to leave at that, but before Kiyoomi lets her out, he has to know. “Chiya. Shouldn’t you be mad? Why are you helping?”

Curiously, she tilts her head, gaze shifting to Zaki and addressing her instead, “He hasn’t figured it out yet?”

“No,” Zaki sniffs. Chiya snorts derisively, and then she’s off, flowing from railing to railing, swift as a comet. Before he can question it any further, Zaki cuts him off, “Don’t worry about it, Kiyo.”

Under the instructions from a visitor he’s still unconvinced he didn’t hallucinate, and the questionable culinary guidance from Zaki, Kiyoomi procures a haphazard bento. Edible, but dangerously close to falling apart. (Initially, he had looked through Atsumu’s _Volleyball Monthly_ interview from a year ago for inspiration, but there was no way he could be trusted with fatty tuna, so this was the next best option.)

He steps out of the house as soon as it’s done. Not to overcome hesitance; more so because he’s never backed away once he had a plan. Like he’s always done when he goes over to Atsumu’s place, he forgoes his mask. 

But his feet bump into something on the way out—a see-through container and a thermos flask, laying innocuously on a plastic bag outside his door. There’s rice inside the box, topped with pickles, sesame, salmon and umeboshi, presented in a way that almost passes for professionalism if only it wasn’t marred by stray pieces of overlapping food. And the flask, when Kiyoomi sniffs at it, has tea. It’s steeped to fragrant perfection.

 _Ochazuke._ A dish that doesn’t require any direct contact from the cook—only chopsticks, a steady hand, and a patience to get it right.

Kiyoomi hadn’t understood how food could convey the weight of an apology when Chiya suggested it. Yet here he receives one, without proxy, from Atsumu. 

Atsumu, who’s made this for him, in his dysfunctional Miya creole, even though he doesn’t have the onus to apologise; Atsumu, who picks up his eccentricities and adapts to them; Atsumu, who still bothers to try after Kiyoomi dragged him into his problems and stabbed him with accusations. 

Something unfurls in his chest like myosotis petals, climbs into the hollow of his throat and his sinuses. It tastes like forgiveness, devotion, and—

“Do you get it now?” asks Zaki.

“...I think I do.”

***

It’s one thing to realise mutual feelings after years and years of memories and build-up; it’s another thing entirely to act on them and see them to fruition. Kiyoomi gathers up his bento and ochazuke and stops in front of Atsumu’s apartment. The air crystallises in his lungs when he breathes in, piercing and grounding. 

Zaki thumps his legs with her tail in support. 

He presses the bell. After some sounds of shuffling, Atsumu opens the door in a soft, warm Inarizaki hoodie, faded from use. The shadows under his eyes are dark, the fire in them snuffed, and his hair clumps limply to the side. Still, the tripwire restlessness in Kiyoomi starts up again, _hello hello hello._

 _You look like hell warmed over,_ is what almost comes out automatically. He bites it back. Instead, he forces out, “I got your _ochazuke_.” He lifts the bento box. “And I made you this.”

The actual ‘sorry’ goes unspoken, but it‘s fine. Atsumu widens the door and peers inside the container. A tiny spark catches in the glint of his eyes, reflected in the teasing curve of his lips. “Omi-kun, ya need to work on yer presentation,” he critiques. “The lettuce is fallin’ out. This smiley face looks demented.” _You’re forgiven._

Kiyoomi squints. “Let us in already. It’s cold and I’m going to drop your lunch.” With a flourish, Atsumu makes way.

Shutting the door behind him, Kiyoomi squeezes a dollop of hand sanitiser from its holder by the entry. Greets Chiya at her cat-tower perch near the television. Puts the food down on the kitchen island. Takes an alcohol wipe from the counter to clean it. Cleans the stools beside the counter too. Sits down while Zaki jumps up beside him. Watches Atsumu prepare the cutlery and join him across the table. 

These are done quietly. Sequentially. A routine established at an indefinite time but a definite space—here, in the home of a thoughtless-thoughtful jerk.

Atsumu rests his elbow on the counter and places his cheek in his palm, poking at the bento and commenting on areas of improvement. Periodically, he takes a bite. With the heavy winter clouds, what little sunlight that’s thrown through sheer curtains falls in patterned folds of shade and soft light. Muted and dim, it splashes across the lines of Atsumu’s body, and the hollow of Kiyoomi’s ribs ache with it. 

“What,” Atsumu asks, chewing. “Why’re ya starin’ at me? Do I have rice on my face or somethin’.”

Kiyoomi’s face pinches. The words elude him again, and unlike before, he knows these words _have_ to be said; it’s just hard to breach the topic, because how is Kiyoomi supposed to put into words the storm in his mind and the static on his skin— _Atsumu, I’m sorry for what I said; Atsumu, when you touch me I crave for more; Atsumu, I think I love you, have loved you ever since that bet—_

“Atsumu,” Zaki says, hopping onto the counter that’s barely big enough for her, “do you know why Kiyo and I are foxes?”

Her voice is low and resonant; it cuts through the room, demands to be listened to, and the world hushes for her. In her presence, Atsumu straightens to attention.

“We are solitary creatures.” she continues. “Ever since childhood we learn to fend for ourselves, and we need no one _but_ ourselves. We travel alone, hunt alone, feast alone. On the rare occasion someone manages to win our loyalty, they win it for life.

“We are illusionists. It isn’t intentional trickery like that of the _kitsune,_ but it is misdirection nonetheless. We push people away with cutting shoves and cutting words. People see what they want to see; they see a masked, hackled predator wreathed in spines, and they don’t look any closer. We let them go. In the long run, it hurts us less when they decide to leave.” 

Zaki’s tail swishes. She pins Atsumu with a snarl. “So, do you know what it means when someone bothers to peer behind our mask, see our demons and our peculiarities, and yet still choose to stay?”

Atsumu looks like he’s been bludgeoned. Admittedly, it _is_ a lot to take in; Zaki has never been known for her subtlety. Job done, she leaps down from the counter and joins Chiya in her tower, leaving the both of them alone.

Kiyoomi opens his mouth to speak—

“Wait, wait,” Atsumu scrambles.

—and is stopped by a finger held up in front of his face. “Hang on, Omi-Omi. Let a guy process this. I didn’t expect to be livin’ a movie today.”

Rolling his eyes, Kiyoomi gently pushes Atsumu’s hand down to the counter. He ignores the current that jolts up his arm with great prejudice, instead focusing on the way Atsumu stills and his mouth falls open. Ha.

“Atsumu,” he begins. The fingers trapped under his own twitch. “I say this with immense difficulty. I have not stopped thinking about every single time we’ve touched. Ever since U19. It drives me insane. It drove me so insane that I played like crap yesterday. And when I accused you, I thought you left for good. So— the ochazuke— you being here now—”

Kiyoomi takes in a breath to recalibrate. Atsumu’s staring wide-eyed, hanging on to every word. “Zaki’s right,” Kiyoomi continues, his breath a soft and careful wisp. “The mask protects us. Only a few people care enough to look past it.

“Motoya—” nothing to do with the obligation by blood, everything to do with his tenacious persistence.

“—Wakatoshi-kun—” because his single-minded bluntness and strength cut through anything.

“—Iizuna-san—” because he was Kiyoomi’s captain, and his setter, and he cared desperately for his team.

“—and you.” Because Atsumu saw all the prickliness of his facade and the fear and anxiety under it, and accepted everything as a package deal anyway.

A shaky sigh escapes Atsumu. He raises his free hand to Kiyoomi’s cheek, sluggish, and leaves it a finger’s breadth apart. An offer, ripe for the picking. Kiyoomi can feel the heat radiating off of it. 

“But ya never wear yer mask when yer here,” Atsumu says. He sounds like he’s lost in a dream. In his mind, Kiyoomi knows he’s referring to his surgical mask, but—

“No.” He pushes into the curve of Atsumu’s palm, the warmth from it dusting across the arch of his cheeks and the tips of his ears. “I haven’t needed it for a while now.”

He dares to look straight at Atsumu, admire his matching flush, the scattered glint and gleam of hope in his irises, the awe etched into the creases of his visage. 

Not a second later, Atsumu lets out a gutted sound. Physically staggering, he yanks his hand back and clutches at his hoodie above the space of his heart. “Omi-Omi, that was disgusting. Please warn me next time, I can’t take this—”

“Must you always be this dramatic?” Kiyoomi gripes, but he offers him a faint smile with the goal of flustering him more. It works. 

In an act of a sore loser trying to regain his leverage, Atsumu takes his trapped hand and slides it against Kiyoomi’s. Palm to palm, fingers interlaced. It backfires spectacularly; all he does is gawk and choke out a strangled, “ _Oh.”_

_‘Oh’, indeed,_ Kiyoomi’s blood sings. The hold anchors him, untethers him, rushes down to the tips of his being and coasts up the notches of his ribs. So _this_ is what he’s been craving. For what he’s been through, he thinks it’s almost worth it. Almost. 

He runs his thumb down the side of Atsumu’s, considering. 

“Brush your teeth.”

“Hm? Fer what— Ooh. Ya wanna kiss me that bad, huh, Omi-kun? Is that it—”

“Yes, it is.” Kiyoomi slips his hand away. He misses the feeling immediately. “Go.”

Atsumu freezes. The moment he registers what’s on the table, he thaws violently and bolts to the washroom. Kiyoomi catches a vague mumble of heaven-sent thanks when he blusters past. 

From a cubbyhole on the cat-tower, Zaki sticks her head out. “I’m very happy for you. Although sometimes I wonder if it had to be him.”

“Hmm.” Kiyoomi wonders too, but if someone had to take one for the rest of the world and be with him, he supposes he owes the same sacrifice.

“Hmm,” Zaki teases. Giving him a grin that scrunches her eyes, she yips, “Good luck!” And she retreats back into the cubby, ears skimming the edge of the opening. From the distant feeling of grasping claws, Kiyoomi doesn’t particularly want to know what’s going on inside.

 _Good luck,_ she’d said. Good luck for what he’s kickstarted—an uncertain, rocky courtship that for once he hasn’t drawn up a long-term plan for. Good luck for what’s about to come, because he’s never done this before; he can only hope for Atsumu to go slow, go easy, he’s fragile with how badly he wants. Good luck for the fond, restless longing in his chest that yawns ravenous when Atsumu walks in—red-lipped and damp-cheeked, hair fixed and fluffed. 

(How vain.)

But there’s no need for longing now, not when Kiyoomi has him; not when Kiyoomi can hold him and be held as much as the starvation desires. So he doesn’t resist when Atsumu tugs him over and sits him on the couch, or when Atsumu stands over his closed legs, waiting for permission.

“You can come nearer,” Kiyoomi says, almost reaching out to tug at the drawstrings of Atsumu’s hoodie. 

Lips lifting, Atsumu kneels up onto the padded cushions. His thighs bracket Kiyoomi’s lap without making contact. Looking down at Kiyoomi, rimmed by soft light from the window by the side, he’s the perfect picture of a smug victor.

Atsumu leans down. This close, Kiyoomi can feel his breath puff shallowly on the bridge of his nose. His lashes dip dark and low, clumped together with stray drops of water that glimmer like stars. Their chests would touch if Kiyoomi so much as breathes deeply—and oh, does he want to. He aches to inhale the scent of mint and wildflower until it pools in his throat and coats his tongue; to drown in the winter-sun glow of golden eyes, sink into the burning hearth of Atsumu’s proximity, and take all he’s given.

“Ya don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.” Atsumu trails his hand up Kiyoomi’s sleeved arm, easy and slow. Lines of fire bloom in its wake. It comes to a stop just above his heart, sears into his skin like a brand. “I thought I scared ya off yesterday, but it looks like ya want this as bad as I do.”

Desire balloons its way from the pits of Kiyoomi’s gut to the base of his mandible, tilting his chin up. Their lips almost brush when he says, “So stop talking.”

Atsumu’s pupils blow wide. He inhales shallow and quick, claws a curled hand into Kiyoomi’s shirt, and pushes forward to press their lips together—once, twice, three times to the triphammer beat of Kiyoomi’s heart and the shudder of his soft exhale. The static shivers its way across his skin with each brush, makes his toes curl and lashes flutter, and _still_ it isn’t enough.

Just to be sure, just because he _can_ , Kiyoomi rests the weight of his palm high on Atsumu’s carotid pulse, sneaks around the curve of his neck and threads his fingers into the downy hair behind his ears. He plants a careful, lingering kiss to the corners of Atsumu’s lips. The turbulence in the artery thrums harder. Ah, Atsumu really _does_ want this.

“S’what I said, jerk,” he mutters, but there’s no heat behind it. Or maybe it got swamped by the way Atsumu tongues at the seam of his mouth, thumbs hotly at his cheekbones and the hinge of his jaw and pops it open with the barest hint of pressure. Maybe it got buried beneath the champagne rush of effervescence thrilling through his veins when Atsumu gentles his lips and licks into the roof of his mouth—leisurely, luxuriantly decadent.

It’s almost too much—the scent and sighs and spill of heat—yet Kiyoomi finds himself yearning for more when Atsumu pulls apart. He closes his eyes when Atsumu strokes at the thin skin under them, if only to avoid being swept up further into his sweet spell. There’s a soft, wet touch to the open space above his brow. Atsumu’s breath tickles when he speaks, “I never thought I’d get to do this. Didn’t even think ya’d respond to any of my plans.”

Kiyoomi pauses. This is new. “What plans?” Then a few scenes surface—of an Onigiri Miya visit, gym sessions, lunches, shopping trips, the _hug._ He pushes Atsumu back. Stares at him in panic and what-ifs. Were those _dates?_ “Have you been _flirting_ with me?”

Lightly, Atsumu rolls his eyes. His hair tufts on one side from Kiyoomi’s tugging. His lips are very, very red. “Have been fer the past few months. Thanks fer noticin’.”

And Kiyoomi’s ready to protest, but Atsumu relaxes his body and melts against him, pushes in so their chests touch and their thighs touch and their noses brush— _too much, not enough_ —Kiyoomi gasps, overwhelmed by the stifling furnace of liquid heat, and Atsumu slides their tongues together again.

They kiss until Kiyoomi can’t feel his lips, kiss until Kiyoomi goes lightheaded from waves of warmth and sated want, kiss until Kiyoomi, desperate for an anchor, tightens his hand around Atsumu’s waist—when did that get there—and Atsumu grunts and wrenches it off and laces their fingers together. “Like this,” Atsumu mumbles, diving back to his neck, planting a row of scorching stars down the slant of his muscle. _Like this_ , Kiyoomi loses himself in the fever delirium of Atsumu’s touch, the static in his nerves blissfully, blissfully silent.

* * *

Atsumu takes Kiyoomi stargazing for his birthday the next year, out to the edge of the city where the lights fade firefly-soft. Where the boundaries between reality and dreams blur in the fog of the mountains and wane beneath the watercolour splash of the sky. 

Kiyoomi’s tucked himself against Atsumu’s chest from where they sit on the unlit porch of the inn they booked, Atsumu’s arms coaxed around his waist—because to his dismay and Atsumu’s delight, being held is the best way to calm his touch starvation. With clean, crisp air and civilisation so far away, Kiyoomi doesn’t need his mask.

In a birthday greeting of her own, Chiya darts up Kiyoomi’s ribs, pushes herself up on his collarbones and bumps her nose into his. He trails the back of his finger down the length of her body as thanks, savouring Atsumu’s shudder around him, and lets her return to nest in Zaki’s curled form across their feet.

“Are you even looking at the sky,” Kiyoomi asks, but his tone brooks no question.

From where he’s buried his face in Kiyoomi’s neck, Atsumu shakes his head. “Ya get yer present, I get mine. ‘Sides, why do I gotta hurt my neck to look up at some stars when I have somethin’ more beautiful in my arms?”

“Ew. You’re so gross.” Still, he tilts his head to the side and grants Atsumu access to the expanse where his neck meets his shoulder. So Atsumu can suck a red-purple nebula into his skin, or whatever excuse he comes up with this time. “You have to look up at me anyway.”

That earns him a sharp bite.

Huffing quietly, Kiyoomi takes to playing with Atsumu’s fingers as he returns his attention to the dark wash of night and the twinkle of scattered stars. As his sisters taught him a lifetime ago, he finds faint pinpricks weaving through the ends of the veil of space, traces constellations with his eyes.

He counts the number of stars in the pattern of a dipper, counts the gemstone glow of distant planets, counts the ephemeral streaks of meteors and his disparately enduring blessings, counts the fundamental rules of daemons from _one-two-three—_

“Happy birthday, Kiyoomi,” Atsumu whispers.

 _—four._ Because what better person to let hold his soul than a careful, starbright setter who takes what he’s given and lifts it, savage and saccharine, to stellar heights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading, you can come say hi to me on my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/chivience)! 
> 
> Here’s also a [link](https://twitter.com/chivience/status/1342071186168016896?s=20) to the fic graphic and additional notes I put up if you’re interested in knowing why I made the daemon choices I did, with a few fun facts I couldn’t slot into the fic. As usual I LOVE reading your comments, like really you guys don’t have any idea. So spare a comment? For a starving writer?

**Author's Note:**

> Next up: a fanmeet, a bet and a realisation (also with more daemons)
> 
> Comments are always appreciated! If you wanna know the way I thought about certain lines or plot points, or how I assigned characters their daemons, feel free to ask. I'll give you a reply that's probably way too long.
> 
> Come say hi to me on my [Twitter](https://twitter.com/chivience) (please be warned that I'm now a Genshin account, oops).


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